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 two weeks old, but she has passed out of my life completely. Since our interchange of letters we have met but once, and then only to pass each other with a formal bow. As I review the foregoing pages, there is only one thing which I should like to change. Coming to think of it, I imagine it is unlikely that she has ever deliberately thrown herself at my head.

As I close, the rake of Darius is rasping on the gravel outside, and in the distance, at the wash-tub, Galvin is wailing “Bonnie Dundee” in adagio time. But these are trifles, and “Sans Souci” was never more deserving of the name.

The chronicle is complete. It only remains to seal up these pages for future reperusal. But, as a last word, I will venture a prophecy. It is that, at whatever date I shall read this record through once more, it will only be to lay it aside, finally and forever, with the identical conviction which is at present in my